﹒✶ How It Feels To Worship Apollon ✶ ﹒

Once a little boy went to school. One morning The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. He liked to make all kinds; Lions and tigers, Chickens and cows, Trains and boats; And he took out his box of crayons And began to draw.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make flowers.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make beautiful ones With his pink and orange and blue crayons. But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And it was red, with a green stem. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at his teacher’s flower Then he looked at his own flower. He liked his flower better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just turned his paper over, And made a flower like the teacher’s. It was red, with a green stem.

On another day The teacher said: “Today we are going to make something with clay.” “Good!” thought the little boy; He liked clay. He could make all kinds of things with clay: Snakes and snowmen, Elephants and mice, Cars and trucks And he began to pull and pinch His ball of clay.

But the teacher said, “Wait!” “It is not time to begin!” And she waited until everyone looked ready. “Now,” said the teacher, “We are going to make a dish.” “Good!” thought the little boy, He liked to make dishes. And he began to make some That were all shapes and sizes.

But the teacher said “Wait!” “And I will show you how.” And she showed everyone how to make One deep dish. “There,” said the teacher, “Now you may begin.”

The little boy looked at the teacher’s dish; Then he looked at his own. He liked his better than the teacher’s But he did not say this. He just rolled his clay into a big ball again And made a dish like the teacher’s. It was a deep dish.

And pretty soon The little boy learned to wait, And to watch And to make things just like the teacher. And pretty soon He didn’t make things of his own anymore.

Then it happened That the little boy and his family Moved to another house, In another city, And the little boy Had to go to another school.

The teacher said: “Today we are going to make a picture.” “Good!” thought the little boy. And he waited for the teacher To tell what to do. But the teacher didn’t say anything. She just walked around the room.

When she came to the little boy She asked, “Don’t you want to make a picture?” “Yes,” said the little boy. “What are we going to make?” “I don’t know until you make it,” said the teacher. “How shall I make it?” asked the little boy. “Why, anyway you like,” said the teacher. “And any color?” asked the little boy. “Any color,” said the teacher. And he began to make a red flower with a green stem.

~Helen Buckley, The Little Boy

Y'all, It's finally time! I'm on page 159, with 20+ chapters, and I'm here to tell you... The first chapter is edited and ready to be read! Please do bear with me, as this was written probably 2 or 3 years ago, but I hope you enjoy! Now, with no further ado, read on below!

@queen-of-hobgobblers @deadandgaysetanta @redkarmakai

Chapter 1

Florentine

"So, the wounded hero finally dares to stand, eh? I'm almost impressed" the sneer in his words is unmistakable, though my vision seems impaired. My muscles quiver as I rise to face him. Muddy droplets drip from some long-forgotten wound. A sharp, excruciating pain flashes through my leg, centering around my kneecap. I brush it off, because I have to. I have a duty, and what am I if not successful? Who am I if I can’t even protect these people who venerate me? I stand and turn to face my attacker, steel in my heart and fire in my eyes. Their smirk ignites a simmering mix of hatred and envy. Why should they be the one to walk away with their life intact? Why don’t they have to sit and suffer in silence as their other half climbs a ladder so tall that the gods in the sky must crane their heads merely to catch a passing glimpse? Rage pulses behind my eyes, begging for cruel release.

Everything's red. His hand. The ground. The blood red dagger, forsaken long before. The sky. I can't think, can’t hear, can’t see. All that runs in my head is what went wrong. It was fine, we were fine. Everything was good. We were peaceful. Until that day. That horrid day that ripped us apart and set us on our separate, yet morbidly entwined, paths. A voice drones in the background, that one that haunts my dreams and comforts my nightmares. The ground shakes, morphing the landscape. The sky turns black and the trees fluctuate with a wonderlandian determination. The ground twists and tumbles in my eyes, falling away as I attempt to push myself up. My hands scrabble against the softening dirt and I let a grunt escape my lips. His thunderous eyes pierce my heart when his head whips toward me. His mouth moves, but the words don’t register in my ringing ears at first.

I launch myself toward his misty figure. He's waiting, baiting me. I know this. But some things are more important than playing a game. My fist flies past its mark on my first try. A haunting chuckle infuriates me further. I press him, swinging my fists with less accuracy, but I fight harder and harder, I strike and coax more and more and more until he's backed against a wide-trunked oak, trapped between wood and flesh. Blood, beautiful, glorious, shimmering blood, floods down his face as I stand triumphant over theim. Their previous courage dissipates faster than the winds he tries to command. Finally, I hold all the cards. I can be the one to finish a fight, the one to leave them broken, cowering on the ground, weak and worthless in the eyes of the once adoring, now cautious public.

My eyes shut, as a way to preserve this perfect, wonderful scene in my memory. I open them, punching in front where he should be, but the scenery has changed. No longer am I in a mournful wood, surrounded by splintered trees and freshly slaughtered rodents, but rather a village. Run-down huts flood my peripheral, and a young boy looks up at me. He grins, and I stumble back at the mania in his eyes and the blood on his teeth. His golden hair is matted, but his shoes shine with care and polish and his hands have never known a day of work.

"Hey, mister! That was one nice punch you got there! Look, it even made me bleed!" The bloodlust in his eyes is unmistakable, and I collapse to my knees while my younger self drones on about my attack. It was all a dream. Just a dream. Always so close, and yet they’re always one step further. The town is still decrepit, the villain is still on the loose, and I'm still the one to blame for it all. The one who let him go, let him break me a thousandfold just for a sense of my past life. How?! How could I have been so blind?! So…

The sound of my voice breaks the trance of misery and I allow tears to flood my face, my all-too-real facial incisions burning. The sobs that wrench from my body surprise even myself with the desperate plea behind it. My screams are swirling and writhing with the pain that only a truly tortured soul can contain. Horrid, deep sobs wrack my body while thorny vines, red as blood, climb up my shuddering form. The pain cuts me to the bone, but I don’t care. It grounds me. No, what I beg for is a floundering force of strength who long since abandoned me. I scream, louder than I ever have, louder than I thought I could. Even when the tears stop flowing, dry, throaty sobs and screams rack my soul and the vines tighten, clasping at my throat. Air. I need air. There's no air. A name, unintelligible, shrieks out of my mouth. I cry for him, want him, need him. I need their kind eyes, the prim distaste they hold for everyone but me. I need his voice, his heart, his love and lust. My lone earring, a silver, triadic swirl, dangles. It shines as if a beacon might, glowing with false promises. The vines know what I want, what I need. They guide my hand, tearing the piece of jewelry down, flinging it, getting lost in the heartbreak of first love, first trust, and first pain. The screams have become comforting. I know them. I know pain, and I welcome it. Grey shadows creep into my sight, and I gladly welcome them, too. They encompass my vision, and I lean into the cold, slate shadows, reminiscent of stones chilled by a frosty winter air.

"USELESS!"

I've reached page 143, so the time to vote is nigh: once I reach 150, do you guys want

This almost feels like poetry in itself

imagine i put some sad poetry here about not being able to meaningfully help the people important to me in their times of need. i’d write it myself but i have to get back to work

Oh, this is amazing 🤣🤣🤣🤣

this website’s easy watch. *dangles a bunch of greek gods like keys*

Send this to all your favorite moots and pass the pumpkin round! KEEP THE PUMPKIN TRAIN GOING 🎃🖤🎃🖤🎃

I'm your fave?

Anywho, PUN'KIN TRAIIINNNNN🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🚆🚆🚆🚆🚆🚆🚆🚆

Friendly little PSA from Kitty Pryde that I drew at work real quick

Finally finished this filet crochet project of the goddess Hestia!

I'm insanely proud of it and it's currently being blocked

Done with a 1.5mm hook, pen for scale below:

shorthands for dumbassery that i have grown to love deeply

"how dare you say we piss on the poor" in response to someone misinterpreting your post

"_ isnt gonna fuck you" for suck up behavior

"woah. should we tell everyone? should we throw a party?" for who the fuck cares

"and what if the world was made of pudding" for when would this ever matter.

"and sharks are smooth both ways" for a group of people heatedly arguing with 1 guy who is fucking with them all

".. but its about a witch in the alps finding her lost cat" for someone trying to sanitize something to the point of absurdity

today is the only day you can reblog this

Just a reminder that this was an ad in an actual Marvel comic